A Dangerous Game
by Dark Satirist
Summary: AU Charles Xavier is a highly prized CIA agent working to help put an end to the Humans Rights Activists and gain peace for the mutant race. Erik Lensherr is an HRA agent, working to bring down the mutants. When their worlds collide one evening, they are both forced to face a past they thought was long behind them, uncovering shocking secrets about the world they thought they knew.
1. Prologue

_Well. This is the beginning of probably my favorite story I've ever written. Ironically, this chapter right here is my least favorite, but that's beside the point._

_This story is not going to have frequent updates, because the updates are going to be huge. Currently, I have two and a half chapters (not counting this prologue) written and the chapters are averaging about ten pages a piece. I'll be posting updates (when I have them) on Wednesdays._

_I hope you all enjoy this, because like I said, it's one of my favorites._

_I would love to hear from you all, so if you're so inclined, tell me what you think of the story! _

**A Dangerous Game**

**Prologue: Show Me Proof**

The large room was lit by a series of overhead lights, casting a harsh, fluorescent glow on the lone punching bag in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with a large black mat, offering a light cushion from the harsh cement floor underneath. Cinderblock walls rose several feet up into the air, interrupted by a wall of glass eight feet above ground level. On the other side of the glass was a black, metal catwalk, which offered a place for observation of the room below. Two people stood on the catwalk now, a short, thin man with balding hair and blue eyes, and a taller, muscular man with brown hair and cold gray eyes.

"When is the subject going to be here?" the shorter man asked.

"Patience, McCone," the taller man replied. "The guards will bring subject X in shortly."

McCone let out an impatient sigh as he tapped his designer shoe against the metal catwalk.

"I have a schedule to keep, Captain Stryker," he said. "I can't waste all of my time here."

"I understand," Captain Stryker said steadily, undeterred by the other man's irritation. "He's worth the wait."

"He better be," McCone said flatly. "I'm paying you a lot of money to train these freaks."

"Money that is well spent," Captain Stryker assured. "You'll see shortly."

As he spoke, a set of stainless steel doors down below opened silently, admitting a tall, burly man dressed in fatigues and combat boot. He strode to the middle of the room and cast a swift glance up to the catwalk.

"Is that the subject?" McCone demanded.

Stryker shook his head. "No," he answered. "That is Corporal Jennings. He's in charge of training the experiments."

Before McCone had the chance to ask any more questions, the steel doors opened once more. This time, a medium height man of around 5'7 stepped into the room. He was dressed simply in a pair of sweatpants and a skin tight black t-shirt. He was also barefoot.

The shorter man had dark brown hair that was borderline shaggy with a young, thin face. His eyes were averted, studying the man in the center of the room. His frame was lean, yet his arms showed signs of serious muscle.

"_That_ is Subject X?" McCone asked incredulously. "He looks like a _kid_!"

"Just wait," Major Stryker cautioned, a smile playing at his lips. He pressed a button near the window. "When you are ready, Corporal, you may begin."

There was a brief moment of hesitation down on the floor as both men seized each other up. To any untrained observer, the winner of the fight would undoubtedly be Corporal Jennings. Size difference aside, the smaller man looked as though a strong gust of wind could knock him over.

Corporal Jennings acted first, swinging his fist toward Subject X's face. Before the blow landed, Subject X ducked and kicked out with his left foot, connecting squarely with Corporal Jennings' unprotected chest. The taller man let out a grunt of pain, bringing his extended arm back to protect his chest.

Subject X didn't give the Corporal a chance to recover. He feinted with his right fist and then roundhouse kicked Jennings in the stomach. The bigger man let out a yelp as he sank to his knees, but recovered quickly. He dove for Subject X's knees and tackled the smaller man to the floor.

It looked as though the fight was over—there was no way a man that small could out wrestle someone nearly twice his size—but much to the surprise of the captive audience, Subject X wriggled out of Corporal Jennings' grasp and sprang to his feet once more. He landed a swift kick to the Corporal's exposed ribcage and danced out of the way of Jennings' flailing arms as they attempted to capture him.

Subject X landed a single blow to Corporal Jennings' left temple and the bigger man fell into unconsciousness.

The subject walked to the center of the room and cast a swift glance up to the men in the catwalk. His eyes were now visible—they were an intense, dark blue that seemed to burn with unbridled energy, passion, and intelligence. They seemed to bore into the men watching, causing a shiver to go down McCone's spine.

"Damn," he whispered.

Captain Stryker chuckled. "He has that effect on people. It doesn't help that he's a telepath."

McCone's eyes widened as he stared at Major Stryker in astonishment.

"_What_?" he demanded.

"It's nothing major," Stryker said quickly. "But he has proven to have some telepathic abilities. It's just surface thoughts—nothing beyond that. It comes in handy on missions, though. You wouldn't believe how loudly snipers think."

"How is that even possible?" McCone wanted to know.

Captain Stryker shrugged. "Genetics. You'd have to ask him about it—he's a self-taught expert on the subject. Some of our scientists guess that a couple of his genes were affected by the radiation wave, but we're not entirely certain."

"Are there others like him?"

"Telepaths? Not that we know of. But there are other natural mutants. We have a shape shifter, a computer genius, and a man who is a walking laser."

"What's the telepath's range?" McCone asked, his focus purely on the man in the room below them. He barely seemed to hear what Stryker told him.

Subject X was still watching them intently, though he looked less intense now, and more _relaxed_. Corporal Jennings was still out cold on the floor.

"We're not entirely certain," Captain Stryker admitted, looking unsatisfied with the answer. "Sometimes it's only a few yards, other times it's a couple of miles. It depends mostly on how hard he's concentrating and if he's familiar with the mind he's listening to or not. We're working on improving that in our labs."

"Fascinating," McCone murmured. "This is truly fascinating. I can't believe what I've just seen or _heard_ for that matter."

"Come," Major Stryker said, clasping a hand on McCone's shoulder. "I'll show you more proof to take back to your investors."

McCone gave Subject X one last glance. The man was now sitting cross legged in the middle of the room, his hands hanging limply by his side. His eyes were closed, but there was a soft smile playing on his face.

"What's he doing?"

Captain Stryker shook his head. "I don't know. Then again, I rarely know what the freaks are doing."

Subject X's eyes opened briefly, flashing a quick glance up to the catwalk, before he closed them once more.

McCone shivered once more, before turning to Stryker. "You said you had proof for me?"

* * *

The ancient television set in the far corner was on, with the volume turned on full blast. It could barely be heard over the old coffee percolator that was gurgling away on top of the box or the crackling fire.

The room itself was small and dingy, crammed with old and decaying furniture. The TV sat on a rickety old table in front of the fireplace. A tattered couch that was an off yellow color sat against one wall, allowing its lone occupant to look at both the TV and out the grimy window to the right. A small coffee table that had seen better days in the nineteenth century was covered in empty coffee mugs, dirty plates and bowls, and a handful of official looking documents with a seal that looked suspiciously like the CIA's.

The lone occupant looked completely out of place in his surroundings. He was a medium height man, with graying brown hair, and harsh brown eyes. He was dressed in a pair of pressed black slacks and a white polo.

His name was Sebastian Shaw.

"_Today, I bring news of a new world order._"

The voice from the television belonged to a tall, muscular man dressed in an olive green military suit. The banner across the bottom of the screen identified him as Captain William Stryker.

"_I have put together a team of elite soldiers,_" Stryker continued. "_They are the four strongest, smartest, and fastest men and women you will ever meet._"

The screen jumped to a shot of four people. Three were men, one was a woman. The screen was so fuzzy that it was impossible to make out their features.

"_These people will help unite America and the world, taking care of any threat that arises,_" Stryker said as the screen switched back to him.

The crowd gathered around him clapped and cheered.

Shaw let out a cough that could have been a chuckle or an indignant snort as he turned off the TV with the remote. He sat up slowly, stretching his muscles until his shoulders cracked painfully, before reaching over to the coffee table. He picked up one of the documents from the far end and set it on the couch, before standing up and walking over to the TV.

Shaw flipped off the coffee maker and picked up a semi-clean cup. He filled it halfway with coffee, before reaching for the half-empty scotch bottle behind the TV. He took a large swig of the alcohol, relishing the burn as the fiery liquid slid down his throat, before filling the rest of his coffee mug with scotch.

He walked back to the couch, picking his way carefully amongst the piles of books and newspapers he had arranged haphazardly on the floor. The book titles ranged from _A Brief History of the CIA_ to _Genetic Mutations_ while the headlines varied from _William Stryker Promoted_ to _Russian Scientist on Verge of Major Breakthrough. _

Sitting back down on the couch, Shaw picked up the file and took a sip of his coffee. It was dark and bitter, just the way he liked it.

He rested his feet on top of the coffee table and studied the document in front of him. The official seal of the CIA sat in the top center. The words _Top Secret Information_ rested underneath the seal, followed by a brief warning how secret the information really was.

Shaw skipped over the warnings of imprisonment and death. He knew, perhaps better than just about anyone, what would happen to him if he were to be caught with this information. It was one of the nation's best and most valuable secrets.

_._

_Genetics Mutation Project_

_Subject X_

**Name:** Charles Francis Xavier

**Age:** 26

**Status:** In training

**Brief Description of Abilities:** well-trained in all fighting arts, very intelligent, strategist, adaptable to any situation, natural leader, limited telepathic powers?

.

There was a handwritten evaluation that began underneath the description of abilities and went on for three pages, illustrating how much of an asset Xavier was for the CIA. There was an added comment from then Captain Stryker on his own evaluation of Xavier. It simply read _potential lethal weapon, must be looked after closely. Will be transferred to my own facility for further instruction and given a team._

Shaw merely skimmed over it, having read it multiple times before.

There were three other similar files. Two of them were men—Hank McCoy and Alex Summers—and the last belonged to a woman—Raven Darkholme. They were all ages twenty to twenty-five, all extremely intelligent, and all gifted in some way or another. McCoy, Shaw recalled, was a computer genius. Summers was a walking laser. Darkholme was a shape shifter.

These were the four men and one woman that had been on television a few minutes before.

Somewhere nearby, a phone rang. Shaw smiled to himself as he set down his coffee cup and went in search of the phone.

"Shaw," he answered.

"_You got lucky,_" a woman's voice snapped.

"Now, Emma, where are your manners?" Sebastian asked with a smile as he leaned against the doorway. "I told you those would be the ones Stryker picked. It's not my fault you and everyone else thought I was wrong."

Emma sighed. "_How bad is it, Shaw?_" she asked, her voice betraying how anxious she was. "_Is this the end of the HRA?_"

"Nonsense!" Shaw exclaimed. "Only a fool would think that. This just means we'll have to be more careful."

"_They have a telepath, Sebastian_!" Emma yelled. _"A fucking telepath. How the hell are we supposed to counter that?_"

"The same way we always do," Shaw replied. "It'll be okay, dear. I promise you that. Soon enough, the humans will be back at their rightful place in the world. Did you send Lensherr out on the assignment?"

"_Yes,_" Emma said, sounding a little more relaxed. "_He'll be back in a few weeks._"

"Good. Call for a meeting tonight," Shaw said, playing absently with the phone cord. "I'm sure everyone has a lot of questions."

"_Okay,_" Emma said. There was a slight pause. "_Are you sure everything is going to be okay?_"

"Yes," Shaw said reassuringly. "Everything is going to be just fine."

He hung up the phone and glanced back at the files, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Everything is going to be just fine," he repeated.


	2. Chapter 1

_Thank you to all you lovely people who read and reviewed. I appreciate your input! Hopefully, I don't disappoint to much with this chapter._

**A Dangerous Game**

**Chapter 1**

Charles Xavier stood in the middle of the boxing ring, his gloved hands hanging loosely by his side. His opponent circled around him, broadcasting his thoughts and intentions so loudly, it was a wonder no one else heard them.

Charles smiled, letting the remaining apprehension of the fight drain out of him. The men gathered in a circle around the ring to observe his every move were pushed out of the forefront of his mind to be dealt with later. For now, his world was reduced to this ring and to the 6'2 body of muscle in front of him. There was nothing else, save for the fight.

Somewhere, a bell tolled, marking the beginning of the fight.

Charles' smile turned into a feral grin as his attacker pounced.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

Erik Lensherr glanced over his shoulder, swearing as he realized his attackers were right behind him.

He was in a blind alley, with only one means of escape, ten yards in front of him. His attackers had automatic pistols and machine guns. He had one bullet left in his Glock, two hands and feet, and an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. He had had three straight nights of no sleep whatsoever as he lied, stole, and fought his way to the person he was supposed to kill, only to find the Director of Mutant Affairs had already been dispatched by another Human Rights Activist and he himself was now wanted by the CIA for murder.

Erik looked around desperately for another escape route. There wasn't one.

He lengthened his step, pushing his already exhausted body to the limits. His one sole advantage over his attackers was that he was in shape and therefore, could outrun them. It also helped they couldn't run, shoot, and lug their weaponry all at the same time.

A dark blue car was waiting at the end of the alley. Erik heaved an internal sigh of relief, recognizing it instantly. He leapt over the small gate marking the end of the alley and bolted across the sidewalk.

He was safe.

For now.

* * *

Charles stood in the middle of the room with his eyes closed and his hands hanging limply by his sides. His breathing was deep and even. He could have been asleep.

There was a whisper of movement nearby. He still did not open his eyes.

Heavy breathing sounded directly behind him.

_Wait_, he thought. _Just one more minute_.

A hand rested on his shoulder, curling into a fist.

_Now_.

He swung out with his right elbow and threw his body toward the floor as he simultaneously attacked his opponent and defended against whatever was thrown at him. His feet swept out in a wide arc as he balanced himself on his left palm, drawing his attacker off balance and sending the other man crashing to the floor.

Before the attacker had the chance to regain his bearings, Charles sprung to his feet, light on his toes and landed a swift kick to the attacker's side.

With a grunt of pain, the attacker rolled over, attempting to roll back onto his feet. Charles kicked out at the other man's left kneecap, connecting squarely to the patella. The attacker went down with a shout of pain as the bone was dislodged from the joint.

_Let's finish this,_ Charles thought, his right hand curling into a fist. He sent it smashing into the now injured man's temple.

The defeated man sunk into unconsciousness without a sound.

The world snapped back into focus as a round of applause broke through Charles' fight-filled haze. He blinked sweat out of his eyes and glanced around. His opponent was sprawled on the ground, unconscious, with blood seeping steadily from his nose.

"Xavier!" a gruff voice rang out, drawing Charles' attention to the outside of the ring. Bits and pieces of the gathered men's thoughts forced their way into Charles' mind as he searched for the owner of the voice. The minds were all equally amazed and slightly fearful of him.

Charles mentally smiled as his eyes locked onto Stryker.

Captain William Stryker, along with the late Director McCone, were in charge of the Mutant Affairs and the CIA mutant-human division. He had been Charles' mentor during the latter's training at the CIA and was responsible for the people who were watching Charles' every move with hawk-like gazes.

Charles was the CIA's number one agent. He was top of his class in every subject they threw at him—anything from literature to martial arts. He was handsome and could be charming if the mood struck him, and he was likable. On the sixteen missions he had been on, only one had proved to be a disaster, and that was through no fault of his own.

He was also a telepath, but very few people outside of Stryker and Charles' adopted sister, Raven, actually knew that, and none of them knew exactly how powerful Charles was.

"Captain!" Charles immediately snapped to attention and offered a perfect salute. While it wasn't strictly necessary for a member of the CIA to do so, Charles generally followed the military protocol to the letter, especially where Stryker was concerned.

"I have a new mission for you," Stryker informed him.

Charles peered briefly into the other man's mind, resisting groaning out loud when he saw what the mission detailed.

"I want you to attend the celebration of your new team tonight," Stryker continued. "You're going to be giving a speech."

Charles longed to protest, but he couldn't do so under the eyes of so many bystanders.

Growling to himself, Charles nodded once.

"Yes sir," he said.

"Go get yourself cleaned up," Stryker ordered. "Be ready to go by 2000 hours."

Charles nodded again and ducked under the ropes.

"Oh, and Xavier?" Stryker added. Charles glanced up.

"Yes?"

"Try not to drink any more bottles of poisoned champagne."

* * *

Erik leaned back against the smooth leather interior of the car, closing his eyes and inwardly groaning at how _amazing_ the soft material felt. The leather, coupled with the air conditioning blasting from the front consul, was almost enough to send him right to sleep.

"Don't get too comfortable," a woman's voice cautioned from beside him. "Shaw still has one more assignment for you."

Erik opened his eyes, allowing them to settle on a beautiful blonde woman with bright blue eyes and an annoying mole on the left side of her face above her lip. She was dressed in a white miniskirt and a matching white top.

"Emma," he complained. "I just got _off_ a highly _dangerous and life threatening_ assignment! Can't I at least _sleep_ before I go get shot at again?"

"Relax," Emma said with an easy smile. "I highly doubt you're going to get shot at this time around."

"Where am I going?" Erik demanded, his voice a petulant mutter. He had been really looking forward to crawling onto his lumpy mattress and not moving for the next month.

"_We_ are going to the CIA's mutant-human relations party," Emma informed him.

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

The Human Rights Activist Party, also known as the HRA, despised mutants, feeling as though they were over privileged and whiny that wanted governmental attention. Well, it was a bit more than that, but that's what it boiled down to in Erik's opinion. All of the mutants he had ever met were the same—complaining that they were discriminated against, when in actuality, they were treated much better than the majority of the human race. What made it even worse was that any crime committed by a mutant was generally covered up and blamed on some innocent human because the government didn't want to risk a civil war.

The HRA, on principle alone, avoided mutant-human relations party, unless there was some plan in mind to injure or maim as many mutants and mutant lovers as possible. Last Erik checked, Sebastian Shaw, leader of the HRA, didn't have that in mind.

"To get information," Emma answered, in a bitter tone of voice that suggested she wasn't too happy about this assignment either. "Stryker is making his formal announcement of the team of super spies tonight and we're supposed to figure out if they have any weaknesses we can exploit."

"And remind me again why _I_ have to be doing this instead of sleeping? Can't you take Az or Janos?"

Erik knew he sounded whiny, but he was too damn tired to care. He really didn't want to be stuck in some penguin suit, sipping overpriced grape juice, surrounded by the very people he despised.

"Janos is out on a different assignment tonight," Emma said. "And Azazel went back to Russia to muster up some more HRA members there."

"Why couldn't _I_ have gone to Russia?" Erik muttered.

"Because you don't speak Russian," Emma replied. "And because you make much better eye candy than Azazel or Janos."

* * *

Charles winced as he gently dabbed at the wound above his eye with a wash cloth. What had started out as a simple cut had morphed into an ugly bruise that made the entire left side of his forehead swollen and angry looking.

"Damn it," he whispered as the cut stung angrily.

A gentle hand took the wash cloth away from him while another hand turned his face. Blue eyes met curious, yet concerned yellow.

"What happened?"

The eyes belonged to Charles' adopted sister, Raven, who was a shape shifter. She was, at the moment, in her natural blue form, dressed in a terry cloth bathrobe. Her red hair was wet and smelled of strawberries.

"Stryker wanted to show me off," Charles informed her as she dumped a small bottle of antiseptic onto the wash cloth. "But I think I got off easy. The other guy is in the hospital wing."

"How you always beat people three times your size, I'll never understand," Raven said as she pressed the wash cloth to the wound.

Charles swore in three different languages and clenched his hands into fists as the wound burned angrily.

"Sorry," Raven whispered in his ear, but didn't remove the wash cloth.

Charles muttered something incoherent that was a cross between _it's okay_ and _I hate you_. Raven removed the now bloodied wash cloth and smiled cheekily at him.

"You don't hate me," she said, patting his cheek. "Now go get your tux."

"Remind me again how _I_ got roped into being your date for this party," Charles said as she crossed out of the small bathroom into her adjoining room.

"Because Hank has to stay and do computer-y stuff and Alex and parties don't go well together," Raven answered over her shoulder.

Charles grimaced at the memory of the last time he had seen the young CIA agent at a party—lasers and champagne bottles did _not_ go well together—and mentally sighed. He hated these formal parties—they were so _boring_ right up until someone pulled out a bottle of poisoned champagne. Then, without fail, he was generally the one poisoned, and wound up staying in the hospital for three weeks before inevitably surviving and getting a stern lecture on not drinking poisoned champagne.

"You're being melodramatic!" Raven called through her now closed bedroom door. "Besides, we're going there so you can announce your new team of super secret spies to all of the fancy donors and get more money!"

"I know why we're going, Raven," Charles said, annoyed as he walked out of his bathroom and into his own bedroom. "I just know something bad is bound to happen."

His room was tiny, more of a cinderblock cell than a room. There was one window about half of Charles' five foot seven inch height at the far end, where he had crammed his twin sized bed underneath. A tiny closet containing three changes of clothes, a pair of combat boots, and a tuxedo was on the wall to the left of the window. The door to the main hall was opposite and the bathroom was to the right.

He crossed the small space to the closet and pulled out his tux, sighing heavily. He really hated parties.

* * *

Erik pulled on the newly pressed black slacks, sighing heavily. As much as he despised running around the world, getting shot at, and getting framed for murders he did not commit, he hated formal parties even _more_. Unfortunately, because Sebastian Shaw was a heartless bastard, and, equally unfortunately, Erik's boss, Erik had to go to the damn party.

"I hate these things," he muttered.

"Cheer up, sugar," Emma called from the bathroom. "This isn't going to be _that_ bad."

"Surrounded by the mutant lovers and mutants themselves while waiting for them to announce the news of our complete _destruction_ isn't _that bad_?" Erik demanded, as he forcefully buttoned his pants.

Emma sighed. "You're being overdramatic," she informed him through the bathroom door.

"Says you, who hasn't been shot at six different times in the past twelve hours," Erik snapped, reaching for his shirt. It was thrown haphazardly across the bed, along with his suit jacket and crumpled black tie. The rest of the room was in similar states of disarray, as he had barely been home long enough to sleep, let alone pick up after himself.

"It's not _my_ fault that Shaw had bad intel," Emma pointed out as she pulled open the bathroom door.

Erik was in the process of angrily buttoning up his shirt as she entered his small, dingy bedroom. He glanced up, feeling some of his bad mood dissipate at the sight of her.

She was beautiful, in a sleek, sapphire dress with a v-neck that was accented with glistening diamonds. Her blonde hair hung perfectly straight down to her shoulders, brushing the straps of the blue dress. She wore only a diamond studded bracelet on her left wrist as her jewelry. In her hands, she carried a pair of silver heels.

"Wow," Erik said dumbly.

Emma smiled, her teeth flashing brilliantly in the dim lighting, before scowling.

"While I may look stunning," she said, glaring at his halfway buttoned shirt, "I can't have _you_ looking like shit."

Erik resisted the urge to roll his eyes as she crossed the room and all but tore the shirt from his shoulders.

"I'm going to iron it," she informed him. "And then I'm going to find you a new tie."

"I don't have any other ties," Erik felt inclined to tell her.

She shook her head. "You do. You just don't know it."

With that cryptic remark, she flounced out of the bedroom. Erik watched her go, resisting the urge to bang his head against the wall. It was his general reaction whenever he spent time with Emma. She was beautiful, smart, and way too full of herself. She was also one of the very few members of the Human Rights Activists that actually _liked_ Erik, even if the feeling wasn't exactly mutual.

He stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds, before deciding that he had to have a bottle of scotch somewhere in one of his drawers, and went to look for it.

* * *

Charles fiddled with the sleeves of his tux for the thousandth time while he waited for Raven to appear. He glanced at the clock, depressed to find that only three minutes had passed since he had actually put his suit _on_.

He wandered around his tiny room absently, wishing he had a book or something he could pass the time with, but he had left those at his flat in Westchester. He hadn't been expecting to be put on assignment after his usual exercises with the other agents at the New York base. It was only sheer luck—or sheer stubbornness not to ever have to wear the cursed tuxedo more than necessary—that Charles had his formal attire already in his old room.

Raven finally opened the door. Instead of her usual blue skinned appearance, she was a very tall, very thin, leggy brunette with brilliant green eyes. Her curly brown hair was done up in some fancy array that made her even taller. Her dress was green, silk, and was more of green ribbon covering the necessary parts then an actual dress.

Charles scowled.

"No," he stated flatly.

"But _Charles_," Raven protested.

Charles shook his head. "No," he repeated. "I'm not going to this thing with my sister the whore."

Raven rolled her green eyes and with a flash of blue that rippled across her skin, she was suddenly a few inches shorter than he, with unkempt brown hair, brown eyes, and was wearing what looked like a potato sack.

"Happy?" she demanded.

He sighed, wanting to bash his head in against the cinderblocks. "No."

"You're _never_ happy," Raven muttered as she shifted form once more. In place of the stumpy blonde, she was a slightly taller redhead, with blue eyes. Her dress was a startling shade of blue that was almost a perfect match for her natural skin color. Her red hair was short, barely brushing her shoulders, and perfectly straight. She wore a necklace with an amber pendant on it that was almost the same color as her normal eyes.

Charles smiled. "Perfection," he murmured.

"You just like it when I'm as close to natural as possible," Raven grumbled, unable to hide the smile that crossed her face.

"You're beautiful when you're in your natural form," Charles informed her as he crossed the room to put an arm around her. She leaned against his shoulder.

"You're a sap," she replied, though there was no heat behind her amused tone. "Are you ready to go?"

"Whenever you are," Charles said, still smiling softly as she lifted her head off his shoulder and took his hand.

"Let's go, then," she said.

* * *

Erik pulled at his black tie for the millionth time as he and Emma walked up the marble steps to the hotel's entrance.

"Quit it," Emma hissed as they approached the door. "You're going to undo it."

"That's the point," Erik retorted. "It's choking me."

"You're being a big baby," Emma informed him.

Erik rolled his eyes but didn't reply as she said something to the door attendant. He was already bored and they hadn't actually entered the party yet. It was going to be a long night.

The door attendant opened the door and gave Emma some very simple directions to the ballroom. She thanked him with a smile before tugging Erik inside.

He wrenched his arm from her grasp and followed her down a well lit hallway to a set of double doors. There, Emma gave a name that Erik didn't recognize to the attendants, who bowed her through the door. Erik followed reluctantly.

The ballroom was large and lit by soft lights. There was a bar on the far side of the room, already crowded and covered in glasses. A handful of people were dancing rather awkwardly to the classical music the string quartet was playing. Erik's eyes rested for a moment on the one couple in the room who looked as though they were actually decent at dancing. It was a redheaded woman in a brilliant blue dress, dancing with slightly taller brunette man—boy, really—in a tuxedo. They were both laughing as they twirled around the dance floor effortlessly.

"I wonder who they are," Erik murmured, not even realizing he had spoken aloud until Emma answered him.

"The woman I believe is the shape shifter, Raven Darkholme," she said. "And the man is unmistakably Charles Xavier."

Erik's eyes widened. Every single member of the HRA had heard of Charles Xavier, the CIA wonder child.

"I thought he'd be older," Erik blurted out in response to Emma's unspoken question.

She let out a laugh that was slightly bitter. "Don't let his age fool you," she told him. "He's dangerous."

"I'm not going to make friends with him," Erik snapped as they made their way to the bar. "I'm not a moron."

"When are you going to get around to proving that to the world?" Emma wondered. "Don't answer that. Actually, just go to the bar and order me a martini. I'll be there eventually."

"Where are you going?" Erik demanded, but she was already gone.

He sighed and stormed toward the bar. The dancers moved out of his way quickly, which was a good thing, because he was going to bowl them over if they didn't.

* * *

Charles couldn't help but laugh as the small audience applauded when the song ended and he and Raven stopped dancing. This was perhaps one of the few things that he actually liked about formal parties—getting to dance with Raven. It was one of the few life skills he hadn't been taught in CIA boot camp, and he treasured it all the more because of the fact it was one of the few links he had to his past.

"Charles, is there nothing you can't do?" an elderly woman asked from the crowd.

Charles recognized her with a smile—her name was Kimberly Granger. She was one of the millions of donors to the CIA's mutant division. She was one of Charles' favorite people. Purely human, there was nothing overly special about Kimberly, except for the fact she was a widow of a very rich husband. But there was something about her that never failed to bring a smile to Charles' lips.

"Bring back your husband, I'm afraid," Charles said as a new song started.

"Always the charmer," Kimberly said with a smile. "Tell me, are you always this nice, or is it just because of my money?"

"Kimberly, I'm appalled that you ask such a question!" Charles said dramatically.

She said something in reply, but Charles' attention was suddenly torn away as stray thoughts drifted into his mind.

_Damn Shaw and his stupid assignments. I'm leaving._

The mind the thoughts belonged to was completely alien, but at the same time, felt hauntingly familiar to Charles' own. He turned slowly, ignoring whatever Kimberly was asking him, and searched for the owner of the mind.

It belonged to a tall, thin man sitting at the bar with a dark expression on his face. A glass of what appeared to be scotch was in his hand and another glass—a martini, Charles guessed—sat in front of him.

But that wasn't what worried Charles. The contents of the man's mind, however, were more than cause for alarm. Shaw, or Sebastian Shaw, was the leader of the Humans Right Activist Party, and was responsible for more than half of the mutant related deaths lately. He despised the mutants—and by extension, mutant lovers—with an unstoppable passion.

To hear the name casually thrown out—even in the confines of someone else's mind—scared the hell out of Charles.

"Excuse me," he said roughly to Kimberly. Ignoring any protests or concerned questions, Charles made his way over to the bar, trying desperately to keep his emotions under control. It was proving harder than it normally did—of course, any mention of Sebastian Shaw was enough to put Charles in a dark mood. The man had single-handedly ruined Charles' life ten years before.

Raven stepped into Charles' path before he made it halfway to the bar. He glared stonily at her, causing a shocked expression to cross her face moments before understanding gleamed in her eyes.

"What happened?" she whispered.

Charles blinked, coming back to himself for a moment. Dozens of curious eyes stared at him, obviously wondering why he was in the process of storming through the dance floor.

He took a deep breath and released it slowly, before nodding toward the man at the bar.

"You see him?" he asked. His voice came out as an ill disguised growl.

Raven frowned, turning her head ever so slightly, before nodding.

"Yes."

"He's thinking about Shaw."

Raven dutifully moved out of his way.

"Be careful," she called after him.

* * *

Erik picked up a straw and absently stirred it in his drink, his thoughts wandering away from Shaw to even less depressing thoughts of what he was going to Emma for forcing him into this.

He was day dreaming about setting her wardrobe on fire when someone sat down beside him with a noisy sigh.

He blinked, stunned to find Charles Xavier sitting beside him. Though the other man had a pleasant smile plastered on his face, there was something about his brilliant blue eyes that made Erik think of a panther about to go for the kill. The bruise above one eye did little to deny that sensation.

"I hope you don't mind," Xavier said, gesturing to the seat he was now perched upon. His voice had a surprisingly British accent. "You weren't saving this for anyone, were you?"

An image of an angered Emma popped into Erik's mind before it quickly disappeared.

"Nope," he said. Feeling as though he needed to be polite, he added, "Erik Lensherr."

"Charles Xavier," the other man replied. "You're new."

It wasn't a question. Erik gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"I'm a reporter," he said. It wasn't technically a lie—being a reporter was his day job, but that wasn't why he was here.

"Secret agent," Charles offered, with a slightly friendlier smile. "I take it you're doing a story on the new team Stryker and I are putting together."

"Something like that," Erik said evasively. Changing the subject, he said, "I didn't know the CIA let Brits in. I thought you red coats had your MI6 or whatever."

Charles rolled his eyes. "I was born in America," he said. "Grew up in Britain until I was 16. Then came back here."

His eyes darkened slightly, and Erik sensed that was one conversation topic he would best avoid.

"You still haven't lost the accent, then," Erik said lamely.

Charles shrugged. "You still haven't lost yours, either. Polish, I take it?"

Erik blinked, stunned. "How did you know?"

"I studied abroad in Poland for a few years," Charles replied. There was a sarcastic edge in his voice, as though he was remembering a private joke.

"Interesting," Erik said. He actually meant it, too. "Learn anything?"

"Just that Polish winters suck," Charles said. "And that curse words only get you into bar fights."

Erik couldn't help but laugh at that.

"True," he said. "Then again, being a Brit in a Polish bar can't have done you any favors, either."

"An American Brit, at that," Charles said with a self-deprecating smile.

"You're a paradox," Erik replied. "So, why the CIA?"

"Why not?" Charles returned with a shrug. "It's a great place for intelligent, athletic people with no life."

His voice was once again borderline bitter tinged with sarcasm.

"Sounds like my job," Erik muttered. He inwardly winced. "Though these parties make me want to change my mind about it."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "You don't like coming to fancy parties?"

The sarcasm was evident this time. Erik shrugged.

"Not really."

"Me either. Why are you here, if you're not doing a story on the team?"

So he had picked up on the evasion. Damn.

"My girlfriend is all about the mutant-human love," Erik said, hoping the sarcasm and the lie in his voice weren't too obvious. He really needed to work on that.

"I take it you're not," Xavier guessed.

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Not really."

Charles let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "It's okay. I don't blame you. Everyone is entitled to his own opinion."

"The government doesn't seem to think so," Erik grumbled.

The smile died a little on Charles' face, leaving Erik once more with the impression that he was being hunted by a wild animal. He inwardly shivered.

"Yes, well, that is the government's problem," Charles said. His voice had suddenly become edgy, as though he was on the edge of shouting.

"As an American, I have the right to decide what should and shouldn't be the government's problem."

Erik really didn't know what he meant by that comment, but he felt as though should say something.

"Even if it means killing innocent people?" Charles challenged softly.

Erik's drink was midway to his lips when he froze. His eyes widened as he stared at Charles.

"And what exactly is _that_ supposed to mean?" he demanded with enough bravado to hide his astonishment at the deduction that went behind the question.

Charles smiled again, only it wasn't a happy smile. Behind him, a man dressed in military fashion was walking up to the microphone, obviously about to give a speech.

"You know exactly what that's supposed to mean," Charles stated in a cold voice. "Just as I know that you're a member of the HRA and you really shouldn't be here."

Erik swallowed involuntarily, setting his glass down on the bar with more force than was strictly necessary. The alcohol splashed out of the glass and onto the table, but neither man noticed it. The man at the microphone started his speech.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are," Erik growled. "But I do not appreciate threats."

"Neither do I," Charles replied, his voice vibrating with barely controlled anger. "Tell your Sebastian Shaw that wherever he is, I will find him and kill him."

"Is that a threat?" Erik questioned, feeling instantly like an idiot. Of course it was a threat.

"It's a promise," Charles said. His eyes were liquid steel.

"At this point, I would like to welcome Charles Xavier to the stage to announce his new team," the man at the microphone said.

There was a round of applause as Charles' expression changed from hateful to pleasant in a matter of seconds. He got off the bar stool and strode to the stage, exuding an air of confidence and happiness.

Erik replayed their conversation in his head and wondered what exactly Shaw had done to this Charles Xavier to piss him off so badly.

* * *

Charles shoved the metal door open, welcoming the blast of frigid air that washed over him. It calmed his racing heart and helped him regain control of his raging thoughts. He walked into the dark alley behind the hotel, glad to finally be free of Stryker's watchful eye and Raven's concern.

He leaned against the brick wall, feeling something akin to embarrassment at the way his emotions had taken control over him earlier. He hadn't meant to get so angry at Erik, but the memory of what Shaw had done to Moira was just too powerful.

"Damn it," Charles whispered, closing his eyes.

The smell of cigarette smoke reached his nose, making him open his eyes again. He had thought he was alone.

Curiosity took precedence over self-preservation—really, it could have been one of the two HRA members Charles had staked out earlier smoking that cigarette—and Charles found himself going further down the alleyway. He reached out cautiously with his mind, feeling both anger and some regret wash over him as he connected with Erik's now familiar mind.

"Those things cause cancer, you know," he said before he could stop himself.

Erik looked up from the ground he had been so intently staring at, surprise and the beginnings of annoyance visible behind the cloud of smoke hanging over him.

He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and blew a smoke ring toward Charles.

"And you care, why?"

Charles shrugged. "I don't. I just thought you might like to know that you're killing yourself, slowly, but surely."

"Yes, well, at least I'm enjoying myself while I die," Erik returned, folding one arm across his chest and taking another drag from his cigarette. "What do you want?"

"I wanted peace and quiet," Charles replied. "But since I rarely get that, I would like to apologize for my actions earlier."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"

"I was out of place, accusing you of being an HRA member," Charles said. It didn't matter that Erik was—no one could lie in the confines of their minds, except Stryker—but Erik didn't know that Charles was a telepath and the latter planned to keep it that way.

"You weren't wrong," Erik murmured, shifting his gaze back to the ground.

"It doesn't make what I said right," Charles said. "I'm sorry."

Erik gave a one-shouldered shrug. "Don't be. I'm not Shaw's biggest fan, either. I'll pass along your message."

"I wouldn't, if I were you," Charles said. "He might kill you."

Erik looked up, his raised eyebrow going higher. "Why?"

Charles shook his head. "It's a long, complicated story."

"I don't have anywhere pressing to be."

"I do."

It was a lie, but he wasn't going to discuss his past with some stranger. Especially when that stranger obviously knew Shaw well and was also working against everything Charles was trying to accomplish in the world.

"Okay," Erik said, accepting the lie. It was obvious he didn't believe it, but he wasn't going to press the matter. For that, Charles was grateful.

"So how long were you in Poland?"

Erik looked slightly surprised for a moment, before shrugging again.

"Seventeen years, more or less," he said. "Then my parents… my parents died and I moved here."

Charles heard the truth in Erik's mind. His parents hadn't died—they had been murdered.

"I'm sorry," he said instead. "I know what it's like."

If Erik was surprised, he didn't look it. Instead, his entire body stiffened and he looked away from Charles. The telepath followed his gaze, surprised to find a third person had entered the alley. It was a man of medium height—taller than Charles, but shorter than Erik—with curly red hair and a desperate expression on his face.

"I knew you were double crossing, Lensherr!"

Erik let out an annoyed sigh, glancing back at Charles.

"I'm not, you idiot," he said. "I was gathering intel for Shaw."

Charles chanced a look into the third man's mind, unsurprised to find this was another HRA member. His name was Sean Cassidy. He was nothing more than a low level thug, sent out to occasionally do dirty work for Shaw, but thought he was so much more than that. He also had a deep-seated hatred toward Erik, and would stop at nothing to point out that the taller man was a traitor.

_Interesting_, Charles thought.

This was going to get ugly. He just had that feeling.

* * *

"Liar!" Sean shouted. "You were giving away HRA secrets!"

Erik rolled his eyes. "If you were actually eavesdropping, then you would know I _wasn't_."

Sean looked absolutely livid as he reached for something in his pocket. Erik knew it was a gun.

Before he had time to react, however, he was pushed forcefully out of the way and Sean was tackled to the ground.

Erik watched in blank surprise as _Charles_ and Sean wrestled on the ground for a few moments. There was a sickening _pop_, followed by a sharp grunt of pain from Charles, and a cry of agony from Sean, and then, suddenly, the gun was in Charles' hand and Sean was unconscious.

"How the hell did you do _that_?" were the first words out of Erik's mouth.

Charles got to his feet, favoring his left shoulder and looking extremely pale in the dim lighting of the alleyway.

"He's not that impressive of a fighter," he replied, holding out the gun to Erik. "I think you should take this."

Erik stared at the gun in astonishment. "Sean is one of the best hand-to-hand combatants _in_ the HRA," he stated dumbly, not even realizing that he shouldn't have said that.

Charles shrugged with his good shoulder as he crossed his injured arm across his chest. "Obviously not," he said. "That wasn't even difficult."

"You knocked him out in two seconds flat," Erik said incredulously.

"You sound surprised," Charles said, amusement coloring his otherwise pained voice.

"I am," Erik said simply.

"Why?" Charles asked curiously.

"Because _I _can't even do that, and he's terrified of me."

Jealousy, Erik knew, had always been one of his weak points. However, this wasn't exactly jealousy. This was awe.

Charles smiled slightly, though there wasn't any humor in it. "When you spend the majority of your life living in the CIA, you learn a trick or two about knocking morons out. Especially drunk, high morons."

There was something behind those words that made him sound extremely _sad_ at his current position, though Erik couldn't figure out what it was.

"Are you okay?" he asked instead, remembering belatedly that the other man was obviously hurt.

"Bastard dislocated my shoulder," Charles said through gritted teeth. "I've had worse, believe me."

"Why did you do that? Get the gun away from him, I mean."

"Would you rather he have shot you? Because if it's a bullet wound you're after, give me that gun back, and I'll gladly shoot you instead."

Erik stared and shook his head. "I'm a member of the very organization you obviously hate. You could have let him kill me and then killed him."

"What fun would that have been?" Charles asked. Sighing and obviously frustrated, he added, "I may be a mutant sympathizer, but I'm not going to let people who stand against us _die_ because of a difference of opinion. That's the most idiotic reasoning I've ever heard."

There was something in his voice that indicated this was an age old argument for him.

"I'm the enemy, though," Erik stated.

"I have only one enemy, and trust me, you aren't him," Charles said flatly. "Now, if you want me to shoot you, then I will. But for now, I'm all for returning to the party—or leaving—and forgetting this incident ever happened."

Erik wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. This went beyond anything he had ever been taught about these people. They weren't supposed to be sympathetic to their enemies—only to the mutants and mutant lovers. But if it meant that he wasn't going to get shot, then so be it.

"I don't want you to shoot me," he said after a brief pause. "And I'm all for leaving."

"Good," Charles said with a sigh of relief. "That means I can go home and sleep."

"You're going _home_?" Erik echoed, looking pointedly at Charles' dislocated shoulder.

"Yes," Charles said in a voice that said if Erik wanted to argue, then Charles would have no qualms about shooting him.

"Shouldn't you get that shoulder looked at?"

"I don't trust doctors," Charles replied in a bitter voice that clearly held a back story.

Erik sighed. "Me either," he admitted. "Where are you heading?"

"My flat," Charles said evasively.

Erik rolled his eyes. "I'm not asking so I can send the HRA after you. I'm asking so I know where to send the ambulance tomorrow morning when you pass out from the pain."

"I won't pass out," Charles muttered mutinously. He did, however, answer the question. "Westchester."

"Good. I'm coming with you, by the way. Since you saved my life, I feel obligated to return the favor."

Erik really didn't want to, but he would feel horribly guilty if he didn't at least make sure the other man was all right.

Charles hesitated for a moment, and then grinned. "You know," he said as he led the way out of the alley. "If you weren't an HRA member and I weren't part of the CIA, we could probably be friends."

Erik snorted. "I don't do the whole friend thing."

"Neither do I."


End file.
